Living with fear and other thoughts

I have been boldly saying that though I find much inconvenient about this quarantine, one saving grace is that I am not particularly fearful. I think it’s because I feel so isolated and secure in my cottage-cocoon. But recently some dreams have made me aware that of while I am not consciously fearful, my subconscious is. The other night I dreamt that a cataclysmic event had shifted the earth off its course, and we all lived in terror of the consequences. Then I realized that we had only lost a few minutes and life was going on as usual. When I woke, I still thought that was true and had to convince myself that it was only a dream. I’m not a sci-fi fan, so I have no idea where that came from.

More realistically, I have twice dreamed that I was at a concert and someone coughed on me. Note: I have never been to a concert (except the symphonic kind) in my life, never to one of a major artist, though I have longed to see Joan Baez and Neil Diamond in person (that dates me). But one night, Christian, Jordan, and I were at a concert; another I was with my parents, and there was a great fuss about getting me a handicapped seat—another note: I was never on a walker until years and years after I lost my parents. Each time I had to convince myself it was a dream, not reality.

I talked with a friend the other day about this. She, some five years younger than I, said she’s had a good life and isn’t afraid of dying. I wouldn’t say I’m afraid, but I am not anticipating it with the joy of some. I know people who think they are going to find streets paved with gold, but that’s not my vision. My main thought is, fear aside, I don’t want to die. I like my life. I want to enjoy my family, see my grandchildren grow and develop. I have things to write, dishes to cook. I still have lots to do, and I’m hopeful that I’m contributing a bit to the world. But the final thing I said to friend Jean is that I do not want to die of COVID-19 because it is a miserable death.

On a much cheerier note, I’ve been reading Minding the Store, by Stanley Marcus. Probably should have read it years ago. I began it on a hunt for mention of Helen Corbitt, but I ended reading it for itself. Marcus was a bit of a formal writer, but he was also an accomplished storyteller, and he had anecdote after anecdote about retail life. It was a great glimpse into a world that was unfamiliar to me.

But the part that most interested me was his account of the political atmosphere in Dallas in the early Sixties, culminating tragically in the assassination of John F. Kennedy. Marcus later said he had warned JFK against the trip to Dallas, fearing he would be humiliated; he never thought he would be assassinated. Marcus was an outspoken and courageous liberal who nonetheless managed to be a civic leader in a highly conservative city. I was appalled at the narrow vision of some in the city, including the city’s leading newspaper, and impressed by Stanley Marcus, his insight, and his courage. There are so many parallels to today’s political world, lessons I hope we all learn about cooperation and working together. Not happening yet.

Outside my window these days I see ornamental grasses. When the wind blows, they wave and move like dancers in diaphanous gowns. I am fascinated by watching them. Sometimes, when I am at my computer, I catch that movement out of the corner of my eye and think someone is headed to the cottage. Sometime soon, pentas will be planted along the front of the deck, covering up a bare stretch. Can’t wait to have a flowering summer yard.

Today was another chilly, drab day. Supposed to be eighty by Sunday, but then cooler again with rain a possibility, sometimes slim, for the next few days. I could feel the effect of the falling barometer on my disposition today and had to work hard to overcome it.

How about you? Does the weather affect your mood?

Two sentences and forty meatballs

Yep, that’s the sum of my accomplishments today. Two sentences, a bit under a hundred words, isn’t much. Some novelists write two or three thousand a day. Writing nonfiction, I often let myself feel pretty good about 800 words. But under a hundred? Still, I feel pretty good about those two sentences. They aren’t exactly golden, but they’re probably keepers, at least until the editor gets hold of the manuscript.

You see, I’ve been away from my work-in-progress for three weeks. First, there was that glorious week in New Mexico. My plan of long hours alone in the cabin, working, while everyone else fished didn’t exactly work out. I spent long and lovely hours sightseeing and in, ahem, the lounges of historic hotels.

Once home, life got in the way—and that reprint manuscript that I was working on. And then there was the neighborhood newsletter which took more time than usual this month. Always, though, this past week, the work-in-progress was in the back of my mind, and I knew I needed to get back to it. I had left it at the beginning of a new chapter, and almost as if to validate my theory that the subconscious works on things when you think you’ve put them aside, those two sentences—the first of the new chapter—appeared in my brain. Actually, they arrived in rough form a couple of days ago, and my brain has been refining them ever since, at odd moments, like when I wake in the night.

And the very good news for me, is that I am back in my groove. After writing those sentences, I dug into the book that I need to study for research and got a goodly page or two of notes. And a confession: I’m a happier person when I’m actively working on a project.

My other goal for the day was to make meatballs for Sunday supper, so in the late afternoon—after a lovely lunch brought by Chandry and her stepdaughter, Ella—I dug into hamburger, ground pork, pecorino and parmesan, and all the makings. I confess that it was a production big enough to strain my tiny kitchen facilities—and maybe me. I started at four—and it was seven-thirty before I had all the meatballs cooked and put away, dishes washed. In my toaster-oven, I had to cook the meatballs in three batches, let them cool, etc. Tonight they are in the fridge in a store-bought marinara—Rao, the brand recommended in several places. Tomorrow night I’ll serve them with soft polenta instead of pasta.

And now I’m tired. A major cooking project like that wears me out physically—it’s not easy to cook from a walker seat, and I spill everything everywhere, so my clothes are a mess—and mentally, but it’s done, and I am glad I did it. Probably should have halved the recipe for our family, but we will have leftovers. And Jacob, who doesn’t like my cooking much, loves meatballs. We’ll see if these meet his standards.

Wonderful rain tonight—steady for at least twenty minutes. Sophie stuck by my side but was pretty much okay. Jordan told me they were going to friends for a cookout and to watch their new outdoor TV. Good luck with that.

The air is cooler and smells wet. Lovely.